


Rage Button

by discooperator



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen, Poor Anger Management Skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discooperator/pseuds/discooperator
Summary: Havve Hogan gets angry.





	Rage Button

Havve’s emotional range was severely lacking. It was to be expected, of course, considering most of his brain was a mess of wires and chips that were put there, coating the organic remains underneath to prolong its life, but instead stripped it of everything that made something alive. He had memories of emotions, and sometimes that was enough to trick him into thinking he felt something, anything, other than cold, passive neutrality. If he thought hard enough, really exercised his processors, he could remember what it felt like to be surprised or excited or embarrassed, and from there make attempts to facilitate those feelings. Happiness eluded him. Sadness was just out of his grasp. Fear was something he had never really known in the first place.

But anger…

Pure, unbridled rage…

It was a thing he knew all too well.

To be perfectly honest, it was quite difficult to piss Havve off. He did not have a short fuse, or a fuse at all, really. He was not a ticking time bomb. One could never tell when something was going to set him off. It did not happen often, but when it did, it was for the best to let him shut his processors down and ignore him, or to hole him up in a room and wait for the dust to settle.

This was why he was currently locked in the basement from the outside.

Something he had seen on television had done it. He flipped to the wrong channel, saw something he didn’t like, became transfixed on it, stewed in the raw hate he felt for it, then went off. It was like hitting a button. The other three weren’t concerned until he stood from his chair in the middle of the room and lunged for the television, hellbent on smashing it into pieces. Through his blind rage he heard one of them say something about it being a long time since this had last happened.

Then, he was in the dark.

He didn’t bother to turn a light on, and didn’t want to, being perfectly content with pacing around in the blackness, knocking something over when it got in his way, occasionally throwing objects within his grasp. Some made loud noises, some shattered, some he could not describe. He didn’t care.

He felt the urge to scream rising in his throat, but the rational corner of his mind was all too aware that the act would be impossible. At prior points in his exceptionally long life, he had been able to. He would scream his head off until every ounce of anger was expelled from his body, and then he would scream again to make sure it stayed away. 

The night his vocal cords had ripped, silencing him for good, was faint in his memory. None of the Doctor’s artificial replacements would take hold, and in the deepest recesses of his brain, Havve knew that was probably on purpose. Instead, he was saddled with a primitive voice apparatus and robbed of his last safe outlet for his anger. 

This brief glimpse of the past only further enraged him. He picked up… something… a long blunt object and slammed it into the floor. The resounding clang of metal on concrete was almost satisfying. He did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Then he swung it against the nearest wall, and he could feel it begin to twist and bend in his hands. Still, he persisted, until he felt it break, a piece of it launching across the room. It clattered against the far wall, then to the floor, smashing into a few other things along the way. This was especially loud. 

“Havve…?” 

A voice, quiet and calm, but with underlying fear. The good Doctor himself. 

A hand on his shoulder moments later. 

“C’mon, Havve, you’ve been down here for an hour.” The words were spoken like a plea. Sung reached out, pulling a cord dangling from the ceiling that turned on a small hanging light. The two stared at each other for several moments, Havve’s grip on the oblong hunk of metal in his hand crushing it, creating dents.

He could not remember what he was mad at in the first place anymore, but the feeling still lingered. 

It was now, for reasons he could not grasp, directed at Sung. 

A little frown formed on the shorter man’s face as he reached for Havve’s chest armor. 

Before Havve could react, before he could lock his hand around Sung’s throat, give him the same treatment he had given his ruined vocal cords, wrench his last breath from his lungs, his chest cavity was opened, and everything went black.


End file.
